workplace hazards
by nishikis
Summary: If there's one thing that Sinbad has learned in this one-sided battle of fits and starts, it's that Ja'far is not an opponent to be taken lightly. sinja, lawyer!au.


It is a sunny Monday morning, one where the clouds seem to drift lazily out of view, trees swaying lazily in the breeze. A typical spring day, the sort of beauty that mocks his head-thumping misery after a weekend of work, work, and more _work_, with an entire case of Red Bulls downed for good measure.

And so, Sinbad is content to slouch in his swivel chair (has its rigid folds ever felt this cozy?), twiddling his thumbs and pausing to occasionally adjust his tie. He watches groggily as the members of his team filter in, looking just about as exhausted as he feels, and trudge to their respective seats.

The only one who seems to have the slightest bit of energy is Pisti, who twitters around the conference room like a canary on a sugar high, filling Styrofoam cups and ceramic mugs up with cheap instant coffee.

"Mornin', Mr. Sinbad!" She places a steaming mug and a Saran-wrapped blueberry muffin in front of him, accompanied by her sweet smile. "Oh, that's right- we have a new intern coming in today!"

"Ah, right," Hinahoho pipes up, idly tossing an apple up and down. "I hear it's a guy- changing preferences, are we?"

"_Another _one?" Spartos asks, as incredulous as Sinbad has ever heard him. "Wasn't that girl here just last week?"

Sharrkan nods enviously. "Mm-hm. Quite the cutie, too. But of course, Mr. Macho here," he throws a scowl at Sinbad, "just_ had_ to flirt her into submission. The poor dear ran for the hills once he started doling out innuendos like hotcakes."

"I did no such thing," Sinbad says huffily, far too used to his employees' relentless mockery to be terribly offended.

Yamuraiha clucks her tongue, forever the mother hen. "Honestly, Sinbad," she chides, pursing her lips, "your promiscuousness is going to land us in a rut someday. Think of the firm's reputation before getting yourself caught up in all of these scandals!"

"Said the beetle to the butterfly," Sinbad says airily, waving a hand. "Everyone knows you've been sleeping around with Sharrkan."

The two redden and deny his accusation heatedly, Pisti sips her scalding-hot coffee to hide her smirk, and even the sullen Masrur allows a measured smile.

Sinbad leans back, grinning.

All in a day's work.

* * *

It's half-past ten when the boy shows up. He leans against the door frame of the office, clearing his throat rather primly.

Sinbad nearly knocks over his coffee in surprise, but manages to steady the mug and composes himself. A lawyer, especially a newly christened partner such as he, must always prepare for the unexpected. "Um, good morning. How can I help you?"

For lack of a better word, he's petite, barely taller than Pisti, with snow-white hair, pale gray eyes, and, much to Sinbad's delight, a smattering of freckles across his nose.

"I'm here for Mr. Sinbad," he announces.

"Ah, that would be me." He clambers to his feet, striding over to the boy and warmly taking his hand. "Please, just call me Sinbad. It's a pleasure to meet you, um-" He falters, embarrassed.

"Ja'far," the boy supplies, pulling away almost immediately. It's just as well, Sinbad supposes, uncharacteristically self-conscious- has he ever felt like such a _giant?_

Nonetheless, Sinbad can't help but stare, marveling at just how small the boy is. He drinks it all in: the severe line of his mouth, the steely look seemingly embedded in those pretty, pretty eyes, the way his caramel freckles contrast his pale skin- really, it's quite a bit of a change from the shrinking violets that usually apply for the job.

Sinbad nods, gesturing to the bare desk besides his. "Please, make yourself at home. We're glad to have you on board, Ja'far."

* * *

Sinbad tries to treat their newest recruit as he would any other intern, but it's proving to be rather difficult. Without meaning to, he just _notices_\- everything about him, really.

The first thing that strikes him about Ja'far is how meticulous he is when it comes to filing and collating. Whenever one of his employees stuffs an envelope or document into the wrong cabinet, Ja'far swoops down on them, snatching the paper out of their hands and moving it elsewhere, grumbling about insubordination. _Alphabetized, in chronological order, and filed by relevance_, he chants, a never-ending mantra that baffles Sinbad to no end.

The second is how Ja'far flits the office with the slinking grace of a panther; leaning over desks and tapping Drakon's shoulder to ask him something incomprehensible about pie charts; even during menial tasks like brewing tea or cleaning the clutter left behind in the meeting room, his feline grace is apparent.

Sinbad wants nothing more to mention this someone, but fights down the urge- it's terribly cheesy, even for him.

But, of course, there are also the little things. The way Ja'far idly toys with his bangs when poring through reports. The tiny cough he gives when drawing Sinbad's attention. The noncommittal shrug of the shoulders, the quirk of his lips when he's doing his best to hold in a laugh.

It's endearing, even if the boy barely pays him any mind.

* * *

On a particularly slow day, when they have nothing to do but force themselves through documents regarding the various sexual endeavors of the deceased Koutoku Ren, Sinbad joins Ja'far on his lunch break. The epitome of casual, he perches on top of his own desk, watching the boy methodically chew his tuna sandwich.

"Favorite color?" Sinbad badgers for what seems like the umpteenth time. He's long since given up the struggle to deny how _fascinated _he is with Ja'far.

"I hardly see how it matters," Ja'far says pointedly, swallowing a bread crust, and opens up a package of store-bought cookies. "Is knowing about my trivial interests going to help the firm in any way?"

"Of course not," Sinbad says airily, "but I make it a policy to ensure the happiness of my employees. Allowing you to be understood by a compassionate boss is one of the keys to achieving this, of course. That being said, it begs the question- what's your favorite color?"

Cue the drawn-out moment of silence.

"Green. Like nature," Ja'far says grudgingly, sipping at his diet Coke. His lips purse. "But I suppose even that won't appease you?"

Sinbad gives him a thin-lipped smile. "And you say we aren't friends."

* * *

One memorable afternoon, when Ja'far is out buying sandwiches at the local deli and his employees are at an assembly, Sinbad tiptoes into the office with the stealth of a panther, making a beeline for the suspiciously large pouch Ja'far lugs to the office every day.

Having searched for an ample opportunity for ages, Sinbad is gleeful with anticipation, lunging forward to pounce at the bag, tearing its front-zipper open to find that it contains-

Knives.

An entire collection of sheathed, extremely sharp _knives_.

Sinbad fails to repress a shudder.

"They're for you," Ja'far says, from where he stands in the doorway, arching a delicate eyebrow at his boss.

Sinbad whimpers, but doesn't back down.

What the hell, he's always been a bit of a masochist.

"Can you teach me?"

Needless to say, after quite a bit of persuasion, they spend the rest of their afternoon mutilating Sinbad's prom photos.

* * *

During the fall, Sinbad and his team go out for a celebratory lunch upon settling yet another stuffy dispute between Mogamett and his cohort, hitting the local burger joint. Tenacious as ever, he immediately corners Ja'far and coaxes him to a table in the corner. His employees exchange discreet smiles at this, but don't question it- something he is immensely grateful for.

"Why do you insist upon sitting with me?" Ja'far grumbles, wrinkling his nose as Sinbad tugs him away. "The others want to congratulate you, too."

Sinbad gives him a sweet smile that is only partially motivated by base objectives. "But you're my _favorite_."

The boy rolls his eyes, and Sinbad wonders just when the poor dear became so _cynical. _"Okay, okay, fine." His triumphant whoop prompts another eye roll as they shoulder their way through the crowd to order.

Sinbad makes sure to keep a careful eye on what Ja'far orders. Some variation of an orange soda, six pieces of chicken tenders (_more like chicken goop_, Sinbad thinks), two chocolate-chip cookies, and what is essentially a McFlurry.

"I'll pay," Sinbad says grandly, whisking out his wallet with a flourish and slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. Unfortunately, Ja'far is unimpressed, merely accepting his tray from the lady the behind the counter and trudging to their seats.

Taking a pouty bite out of his cheeseburger, Sinbad follows.

By the time he settles down, sliding into the plastic stool that creaks under his weight, Ja'far has already begun digging in, spooning the crumbled Oreo cookies into his mouth with unnatural gusto. The chicken tenders barely nibbled at, his McFlurry disappears within moments, a dreamy smile creeping its way onto his face.

He's been admiring him for a while, repressing the urge to whip his phone out and snap pictures at a rapid fire pace that would impress even the most jaded of guerrilla fighters, when it dawns on him.

"Ja'far…you have a sweet tooth, don't you?"

* * *

Sinbad utilizes this tasty tidbit of information to its fullest potential, bombarding Ja'far with gifts of chocolates and fancy pastries at every given opportunity, accompanied by Post-It Notes and Hallmark cards declaring his undying affections.

For Halloween, he sneaks into a CVS during his lunch break and purchases an enormous bag of Reese's peanut butter cups, depositing it on Ja'far's desk with a resonating thud.

For Thanksgiving, canned cranberry sauce and slimy gravy forsaken, a pristine hunk of caramel chocolate carved in the shape of a turkey purchased at a county fair is stuffed into his bag, nestled between the knives.

For Christmas, he buys a box of pricey liquor chocolates, and with an accompanying asparagus cooker from his local department store, just for kicks.

"I don't even like asparagus," he hears Ja'far confide to Spartos, who merely grunts in response.

Sinbad is pleased, however, when he finds the gold-foil wrappers scattered around the office.

* * *

"Sinbad is sweet on Ja'far, Sinbad is sweet on Ja'far," Sharrkan says in a singsong voice, having sat through his boss' giddy progress report on "Operation Get Ja'far to Like Me." "Really, I'm impressed- I think this is the longest we've ever kept an intern."

Sinbad is visibly miffed. When did his employees become such cynics? He supposes he has Ja'far's influence to blame for that.

* * *

Looking back, it happens quite spontaneously.

I's stupendously hot for early March, and all Sinbad wants to do is strip off his unbearably stuffy, custom-made suit and bury his face into the lobby's ice machine. But alas, there's a deadline tomorrow and Ja'far, as usual, is a tyrant when he gives the slightest indication of slacking off, so he resigns himself to sitting hunched over his desk and fanning himself with a flimsy newsletter.

"Sinbad," Ja'far says, peering over his shoulder. "Have you finished your paperwork?"

The man gestures impassively at the papers. "But the print! Why is the print so _small_?"

The boy purses his lips, folding his arms over his chest. "Is that really your excuse?" His sleeves are rolled up in a rare display of discomfort, but other than that, Ja'far is completely unperturbed by the searing heat.

"You mock my pain," Sinbad says morosely, leaning back, the chair creaking as it dips along with him. Gazing at an apprehensive Ja'far from a flipped perspective, he cracks a reluctant grin, latching onto his wrists. "Aw, you're so cute when you get all huffy with me."

Ja'far tenses, gently pushing him away. "This has to stop, Sin."

Sin?

"Did you just give me a…nickname?" Sinbad sits back up, whipping around.

He rolls his eyes. "That was hardly the point."

"Don't dodge the question."

"God, you're insufferable." Ja'far exhales through his nose. "Yes. And so what if I did?"

Sinbad's eyes brim with tears. "This is the happiest day of my life," he just barely manages to choke out, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. "I've decided- this momentous occasion calls for a celebration. Cookies at Subway, my treat."

Ja'far sighs. "Convince me that this isn't one of your elaborate schemes to get out of paperwork, and you're on."

* * *

Ja'far is far too shrewd for his own good, Sinbad muses. Fussy, too.

However, he knows as well as any onlooker that the freckle-faced boy, fresh out of law school, has the big boss wrapped around his pinky. All it takes is a little flick of his brows and a plaintive sigh of "Sin" to get him moving.

"_Sin_," Ja'far groans, when Sinbad lingers far too long at the Starbucks counter, flirting with a particularly loquacious Starbucks barista.

"_Sin_," he gasps in exasperation when Sinbad almost slaps Ahbmad Saluja, sleazeball extraordinaire, during an impromptu office meeting, as a last-ditch effort of pacification.

"_Sin,"_ he hisses now, eyes narrowed as Sinbad's hand ventures perilously near Kougyoku Ren's skirt, trapped inside the stuffy meeting room. In his defense, she seems to welcome it, batting her lush eyelashes at him and hiking up the hem of her pale yellow dress to expose the creamy skin of her thighs and-

But nothing is worse than a legitimately upset Ja'far. The glower on his face sends Sinbad's stomach tying into knots.

Kougyoku blinks in genuine astonishment as the peeved intern finally throws his hands up into the air, thrusts his clipboard in Sinbad's hands, and storms out of the room. "Um, did I do something wrong?"

Sinbad, baffled, merely shoots her a simpering smile. "Not at all, sweetheart."

* * *

He catches Ja'far on the elevator down after a long day of work, queasily beginning the twenty-floor journey to the lobby. The two keep a respectable distance between then, clutching onto the wall as the elevator lurches and creaks its way towards the building's entrance.

"Are you mad?"

It's a stupid question, Sinbad knows, but he just can't stand the silence. Even his one-sided conversations with Ja'far are much better than just cold, stony, unforgiving _silence_.

Ja'far glances at him, scowling. "Well, what do you think?"

Ouch. Sinbad blanches. "Well…I'm sorry. It's just, she was giving me the eye, you know, the 'feel-me-up-already' eyes and her skirt was already hiked up and shit, you should've seen how she was egging me on and I just sort of acted on impulse and-"

"Oh God, Sin, it's not just_ that_," Ja'far cuts him off. "I was…agitated, and took it out on you without thinking. I've been dealing with some issues of my own lately, and just…I'm really sorry."

Sinbad is taken aback. Apologies have never been Ja'far's style, but he welcomes it as a cue to continue. "No need to apologize," he says gently. "I'm kind of an idiot, so yeah, I probably had it coming to me." He hesitates, before continuing, "But seriously. Talk to me whenever you need it. You always let me gnaw _your_ ear off, so I should probably return the favor."

They fall silent when a fellow partner gets on at the fifteenth floor, only to saunter off at the next stop. The elevator pings, its chrome doors sliding smoothly back together, and continues.

"I like you. I really do," Ja'far says suddenly, fidgeting. "I don't want you to think any different. It's just- I'm not really sure how to deal with people like you. No one's ever been so nice to me, and I'm…processing."

His heart sort of swells with pride at that.

"But that doesn't mean you're allowed to engage in improper conduct with our clients," Ja'far chastises, forehead crinkling in the way that's no doubt going to guarantee him a lifetime of wrinkles. "Our firm prides itself on its strict code of ethics, and honestly, how did you even make partner?"

Sinbad pouts.

Just when he had begun to think he'd escaped a lecture.

* * *

"Dance with me," Sinbad wheedles, margarita in hand. They're at a perfectly nice work party, for god's sake, and Ja'far still refuses to leave the bar counter. And for what? _Algorithms_?

"They're good for the brain," he mumbles, in a half-hearted attempt to resist, but gives up when Sinbad begins dragging him to the dance floor, where the associates are milling around, bobbing to the pulsing beat of the music.

"I can't believe this," Ja'far groans. "I decided to intern at a firm to meet mature people, not to dance to- what? Justin Bieber?"

"How dare you insult the good name of Shakira!" Sinbad exclaims, depositing his drink onto a waiter's tray and grabbing onto the boy's hands. They're clammy and stiff, but soft. Really soft. And slender. Since when have Ja'far's fingers been so _slender_? "Ja'far, have you been living under a rock all these years?"

"Yes, and a particularly cozy one." Ja'far stands his ground, even when Sinbad begins bouncing to the beat, swishing his hips back and forth. He's resolute, pulling a hand out of Sinbad's grip to mop the sweat from his brow. "I should probably leave soon."

"But why?" Sinbad asks, horror-stricken, but doesn't halt in his swaying. "We just got here!"

"Social gatherings just aren't my thing," Ja'far says helplessly, glancing at the door with increasing frequency. "Why are you dancing with me, anyways? There are plenty of girls who'd love to dance with you." Accentuating his point, one of the firm's major benefactors, a long-lashed young woman with teardrop earrings and an aquiline nose, raises her wine glass in a silent toast to him, lounging provocatively against a couch.

She's pretty, he knows, curvy behind that silky blue dress that exposes her collarbone and the slightest bit of her cleavage, but Sinbad doesn't _want_ her.

He wants pale skin that burns upon the slightest contact with the sun, hair the color of soft moonlight, and pretty little freckles like the chocolate sprinkles he likes so much.

Pretty freckles for a gorgeous boy; bobbing awkwardly on the balls of his feet, poring through documents until he falls asleep with his nose plastered to the pages, sitting perched on the windowsills and nibbling at sticky macaroons.

Nothing seems to underscore his beauty more than the club's strobe lights, sending a kaleidoscope of colors glancing across his skin.

Ja'far cocks his head to the side. "What's wrong?" he says, in that whimsical voice Sinbad's fallen irrevocably hard for.

Why hasn't he noticed until now?

* * *

He gives in to the temptation barely two weeks later, when he and Ja'far are all alone in the office.

The associates have the day off, but Ja'far being Ja'far, he shows up anyways, tiresomely punctual as usual. It seems as though the boy's loosened up a little bit, abjuring his usual suits for a pair of khakis and a v-necked t-shirt.

It's always too much for Sinbad to handle, and so, as a coping mechanism, he showers the boy with compliments, feeling immensely satisfied when he gets one of those little Ja'far smiles as a reward.

It seems like Ja'far's being bold today, too; he pulls up a chair next to Sinbad and they sit together all day, hip-to-hip, so Sinbad can smell the faint scent of cologne on the nape of his neck and glimpse the up-and-down movement of his chest and even hear the beating of his-

Bathed in the pure sunshine of a Tuesday afternoon, Sinbad presses his lips to Ja'far's, caught up in the myriad of sensations, every fiber of his being singing _Ja'far, Ja'far, Ja'far._

* * *

Oh God. Ja'far's ignoring him. Pouts and taunts and scoldings he can handle, but flat-out _avoidance_?

"What on earth is wrong with him?" Sharrkan approaches him after Ja'far flounces away, having refused Sinbad's offer to help him carry the boxes of pamphlets to the receptionist's. "I'm so used to you two acting like an old married couple, so this is just plain _weird_."

"Like you're one to talk," Sinbad retorts, on the defensive. "What did you do to Yamuraiha this time? Break her action figures?"

"They're not action figures!" comes a defiant shout from the other side of the office.

Sharrkan sighs, bracing his hands in surrender. "Whenever you're ready, man." He gives Sinbad a clap on the shoulder, before maneuvering around him.

Sinbad exhales shakily.

It continues the entire day. Pisti wishes him luck and makes a production out of pouring him an additional cup of coffee. Masrur nods curtly as he hands him his completed report, while Hinahoho leans in and doles out well-meaning relationship advice ("My daughter's nearing puberty," he supplies, by way of explanation). Yamuraiha gifts him with a rabbit-foot charm, Spartos assures him he's tactless when it comes to love, too, and Drakon, much to everyone's surprise, quotes Juliet's soliloquy in the middle of their lunch break.

It's sort of incredible, how they can automatically understand before he even begin to process what's just taken place.

It's what a team's for, he reasons.

* * *

The firm throws another spectacular party- this time, for one of the senior partners' birthday. It's a lavish affair, complete with pretty servers and plates upon plates of spinach quiches and all of the drinks one could possibly want.

It's no surprise that the bar is now crawling with inebriated brats.

"Don't do this to yourself, Sinbad," Ja'far says quietly- the first words he's spoken to Sinbad outside of work-related matters for two weeks. Unlike the rest of the team, who had dispersed the moment Sinbad picked his fifth martini, Ja'far stays to mother over him, frown deepening with every sip of alcohol he ingests.

"It- it would help," Sinbad slurs, before trying again, "it would help if you paid attention to me. I've been _lonely."_

Ja'far stiffens, glancing over to where Hinahoho and Spartos are idly engaging in a match of foosball. "Yeah, I know."

"So why won't you talk to me?" Sinbad pesters, downing the rest of the drink.

"No more," Ja'far instructs the bartender, who nods gratefully, scurrying away to serve a gaggle of equally-drunk interns. "It's been…hard."

"You think it's hard?" Sinbad demands. "I'll show you hard- try having Hinahoho shoving condoms down your throat at every opportunity."

He sighs. "I know, Sinbad."

"Yamuraiha's been telling me to take birth control. The girl'd know, I s'pose," Sinbad chortles, fingering the empty glass. He lifts it up, tipping it to lap up the last drops of martini. "I think it's a joke, though. Do you think it's a joke?"

"Perhaps it is," comes his brittle response.

Sinbad, tongue loosened by the alcohol, grins at Ja'far, head slumping onto the counter. "I like you a lot, you know," he mumbles, mind fogged and almost unable to make out what incoherent rubbish is coming out of his mouth.

He can just barely make out Ja'far's stony expression. "Why?"

"Why?" Sinbad has to put some thought into this. "You're….different, I guess? Like, you're not afraid to boss me around and I just…I don't know. I notice you more than anyone else? Your freckles, too. I really like your freckles. The rest of you, too. Like, a lot."

They lapse into uncomfortable silence.

"I think I love you," he says, as an afterthought. "You're naggy, though. Really naggy."

The last thing he registers is a small hand threading through his hair before he passes out.

* * *

Sinbad wakes up with a throbbing pain in his head and a thick layer of mucus coating his tongue. Not to mention he reeks- like musty sweat and stale cologne and soured beer. Letting out a hacking cough, he rolls over, ignoring the way the bedsprings scream in protest.

Wait, _bedsprings?_

He bolts up, surprised to find himself enmeshed in a tangle of clean sheets and curled up on a bed that's much too small for him. Glancing around, he winces as a ray of sunlight pours in from the open window, sending another sharp pain stabbing through his head. The room is austere, adorned only by plain wooden furniture and a couple of photographs taped to the white walls.

Feeling much too weak to give these a closer examination, he turns to his left, finding a glass of water and a note sitting on the nightstand. _Went out to get breakfast. Be back soon,_ the note reads, in Ja'far's painstakingly neat cursive.

Ja'far?

Huh. So that's where he is. Sinbad can't help but feel a warm surge of affection towards the boy as he downs the water, as well as the accompanying aspirin.

Steeling himself, he extricates himself from the bed and eases to his feet, the tiled floor cold under his bare feet. Bracing himself against the headboard for a moment, he waddles forward, shuffling out the door and into what appears to be a living room.

It's just as functional as Ja'far's room; couches with checkered upholstery, a glass coffee table, a flat-screen television hung against the wall, two pairs of shoes pushed against the door.

Sinbad, struck by another wave of nausea, collapses onto an armchair, burying his face into a pillow. Taking a few deep breaths, he manages to sit back up and take another look around, spotting a framed photograph propped up on the coffee table.

In it, a buff man, all toothy grins and dimples, flashes a thumbs-up at the camera, a little boy –he has a broader smile and darker freckles, but it's undoubtedly Ja'far- perched on top of his shoulders.

A scuffling noise sounds from a few feet away.

He glances up, surprised to see a tall woman in a pantsuit emerging from another room. She halts upon spotting Sinbad, nose wrinkling in distaste, and wordlessly clacks past. There's something haughty about her- the way she swishes her hips, perhaps- that makes it difficult to connect her with Ja'far.

As soon as she picks up her purse, the front door opens, and in steps Ja'far, arms laden with grocery bags. The woman huffs at him. "He better be gone by the time I get back."

"Yes, Mother," is Ja'far's weary response.

Ja'far's mother sniffs, swooping down to peck her son on the cheek, before strutting out the door, slamming it shut with a thud.

Ja'far sighs, placing the grocery bags on the coffee table. "Feeling better, Sinbad?"

"Marginally," he sighs, flopping back down on the welcoming pillows. "I still feel like shit."

Ja'far shakes his head, taking a seat at the edge of the couch. "That's what you get for drinking," he reprimands, but his words sound far too beaten-down to be genuine. "Well, if you're feeling up to it, why don't you go to the kitchen? I'll make you some breakfast."

Sinbad smiles at him. "You're a godsend, Ja'far."

"It's the least I can do for you, after all of those chocolates." Ja'far hesitates. "I ate them all."

"Did you now?" Sinbad is faintly amused. "That makes me happy." Ignoring Ja'far's protests, he gathers all the groceries up in his arms, leading the way into his kitchen. Feeling inexplicably invigorated, he deposits the bags onto the counter and heads for the table, squeezing into the matchbox chair.

Ja'far flicks the light switch on, rummaging through one of the bags and pulling out a small box of pancake mix, a carton of eggs, and a gallon of milk. He grabs a ceramic bowl from the cupboard, stirring in all of the ingredients with an efficiency Sinbad has to admire.

With the low thrum of the egg beater in the background, it's difficult to exchange any words, but Sinbad's okay with it- he's perfectly content to watch Ja'far pour measured amounts of pancake batter into the frying pan, flipping them as they sizzle, searing into a perfect golden-brown.

Within minutes, a plate of pancakes and scrambled eggs sits in front of him. After paying his compliments to the chef, Sinbad digs in, pouring liberal amounts of syrup onto his pancakes and devouring them immediately, fork after fork of eggs disappearing into his mouth.

When Sinbad finishes his meal, they lapse into silence, sitting side by side in his kitchen.

"Don't think I'm trying to shut you out," Ja'far says, finally breaking the silence. "That's not it at all."

"So I take it you're still processing?" Sinbad prods, surprised when the boy shakes his head.

"I've decided," Ja'far says, squeezing his fingers. "You're worth the trouble."

"The trouble?" Sinbad chuckles, arching an eyebrow at the reddening boy. "I suppose you could call me that. So, since I'm worth the never-ending frustration…what does that make us now?"

Ja'far clucks his tongue. "Patience, little chick- I haven't thought ahead _that_ far. Let's just say my mom wasn't happy when I dragged my drunk boss in at 3 AM."

Sinbad chuckles bitterly. "She didn't exactly look thrilled."

"Yeah." Ja'far sighs. "Me being gay has sort of been her biggest fear ever since Dad left. But I suppose it can't be helped."

Sinbad thinks of the picture frame propped up on Ja'far's coffee table. Feeling unusually brazen, he reaches up to brush fingers against Ja'far's jaw, struck by how beautiful he looks basking in the mid-morning sunshine. "So, I suppose I'm worth that risk?"

Ja'far hesitates, before leaning in to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. "I think you know the answer to that question."


End file.
